


The Madness of King James

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Changing Tenses, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cousin Incest, Crazy James, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hearing Voices, J/HQ, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Murder Kink, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Suicide, Suicide Squad influence, Torture, Trigger Warnings Galore, Uncle/Nephew Incest, all the abuse, all the bad things, heed those warnings and tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Sirius Potter is crazy.  100% certifiably insane.  He wasn’t always this way.  The slow downward spiral into psychosis was not a path he had taken alone.  For his journey into Hell had been one paved with the destroyed hearts of the people who were crazy enough to love him, and those who were unfortunate enough to be loved by him.  This is the story of James’ madness, as told by Jamie himself and the voices inside his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birth of James Sirius Potter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Soundtrack for a suicide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7842448) by [ColorfulStabwound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound). 



> For my bestie, Colorfulstabwound, who 'started a joke'.
> 
> Okay so this thing came about because Colorfulstabwound is brilliant and saw that crazy!James/Scorpius had Joker/Harley Quinn written all over them and needed a whole series inspired by the Suicide Squad soundtrack. The Madness of King James is based on Soundtrack for a Suicide by Colorfulstabwound and is Jamie's origin story. If you read this, you should really read that.
> 
> I never thought I could top Teddy: Destiny & Desire with the warnings and the tags... but I just did. If you are the least bit worried that this story will glorify rape and murder... yeah, move on to another fic.
> 
> Follow NotYourJamie and DietMalfoy on tumblr if you want to see where these crazy kids came from.

Chapter 1: The Birth of James Sirius Potter

(In his own words.)

It was a dark and stormy night.  26 December, 2003, to be exact.  Unto the dreary world, was unleashed a force so massively brilliant that it changed the face of humanity – an entity so astounding, that every living creature stopped in unison to behold its arrival.  James Sirius Potter was born.  Glorious.  With a full head of reasonably dark hair.  And a face so beautiful that the angels wept with jealousy and were immediately cast down to Hell for their hubris.

 

For two perfect, wonderful years, James, or _Jamie_ as he was fondly referred to, was revered and worshiped.  For two blissful years, upon him was bestowed praise, of which he merited, and countless gifts, which he deserved.  He was loved.  He was cherished.  He was the glorious son of The Chosen One.  More famous than muggle Jesus.  And he took his rightful place as the sole heir to the Potter legacy.

 

And then, one miserable, gloomy night in 2005, the balance of the universe was completely upset, sending the whole world into dark chaos.  Albus Severus Potter was spit out unto the Earth as a screaming, slimy, ugly, scourge with demonic dark hair and satanic green eyes.  And forever would Albus be a blight upon Jamie’s once perfect life.  The fetid larval mass of deathly white flesh that was Albus proceeded to taint everything it touched with its gross, sticky fingers.  And the golden god of a boy that was Jamie HATED the miniscule humanoid creature with all of his virile heart.

 

And then Lily came along and she wasn’t so bad.  She was kind of cute, and she liked to kick Albie in the face with her baby feet, so she was cool in Jamie’s book.

 

Anyway, Albus ruined everything.  And to this day, continues to desecrate the ground upon which he drags his clumsy, malodorous feet.  You could say that Albus was to blame for all the questionable things that Jamie did, for all of Jamie’s motives could be traced back to the day that Albus was born.

 

Why did Jamie kick the cat? He was angry with Albus for existing, and so Jamie took it out on the closest object within kicking distance. Why did Jamie ruin Gran’s record collection? Because he was angry with Albus for existing, and so Jamie took a silver-tipped quill to all of Gran’s Celestina Warbeck records in frustration (and maybe because Celestina Warbeck was auditory torture at Christmas time). Why did Jamie commit a slight, little, wee murder (or two or three)? Albus drove him to do it by merely existing.

 

No need to elaborate. Blame Albus Potter for everything. There is no story to be told. That’s it. The end.

 

~//~

 

Except it isn’t the end, now is it, James Sirius Potter? It is only the beginning. And though the birth of your little brother marks the start of your slow, downward spiral, it can hardly be the culprit. Albus’ birth was negligible, really, compared to all that followed. You like to blame him because it’s easy. Because you can readily admit that he’s the cause of your issues without revealing the dark secrets that fester inside you. Because it is so much easier to blame your brother than facing the demons. Because it is so much easier to blame Albus than admitting that you were not just a victim of circumstance - you were an actual victim. Yes, you, the King of the Wizarding Underworld, were not the aggressor, but the victim.

 

In years to come, you will learn to use your victimization as a shield to deflect blame and protect yourself from guilt for the horrible things you will do. Your quest to never be a victim again will be one that will break you and build you up again and make you stronger, only to be your one weakness, your downfall. _Nobody hurts Jamie. Jamie will burn down the fucking world before he lets anyone hurt him again_ , you tell yourself every time somebody hurts you. So you destroyed everything you touch, but you still end up destroying yourself.

 

And later still, you will understand that Albus’ birth was not what set you off. It was just incidental. It was _your_ birth that made you this way. Yes, you were born this way. This is not to say that you were born psychotic, because you were not. But there was always something inside your head – a voice, a devil on your shoulder, an impulse to act against reason, an obsessive drive. And yet all of these things did not make you crazy – they made you human. You chose to listen to the voices. And that, James, is what made you crazy.


	2. A Touching Story

If Jamie destroys everything he touches, including himself, then by that logic, Jamie touches himself. Jamie touches himself a lot. Let’s call it _self-care_. And, Merlin be damned, he deserves it. Hell, let’s call it _after-care_. Because Jamie could use a good wank to soothe the blows that Life deals him. Yeah, Life is not the proverbial _Bitch_ in Jamie’s case – Life has made Jamie its bitch with the sheer number of times it has fucked him. He’s been fucked a lot, to say the least.

 

Touching story, isn’t it? Really, it is. Being quite literal here. James was touched. Not just by the hand of god, not just by an angel. James was _touched_. Yeah, in _that_ way. Because, if Fate and Destiny and numerous deities wanted a piece of James, you can bet on James’ sweet arse that weak mortals would want a piece of said sweet arse. Can you really blame them? James was pretty fucking cute as a wee lad. Of course it would be beautiful James, over gross Albus, who would be _Tom Riddle-_ diddled as a child.

 

~//~

 

You joked about it to yourself. Hell, you even joked about it openly, albeit in a sick, facetious way one does when joking about relatives that get in your personal space. You know the sort. The great aunt that puts bright, red lipstick kisses all over your cheeks at family functions, the uncle that’s a bit too enthusiastic with his hugs.   Those archetypal people that everyone has in the family and jokes about without naming names. But in your family, you can definitely name names, although you never will point an accusatory finger at them. It was your secret. _Our secret_ , as he had told you.  

 

Years after the fact, you tried to make light of it by using infantile words like _diddled_ and diffusing the intensity of the truth with words like _touched_. It took you a long time to understand and admit to yourself what really happened. You were raped, James. There it is. That horrible word in all its horrible, five-lettered, misery. You can justify it all you want by saying you were irresistible, but what normal, moral, mentally stable person would even find a child irresistible?

 

You wanted to believe that he loved you, and that you loved him, and that it was just The Universe bringing your soul-mate to you in the wrong time of your life – maybe even in the wrong lifetime. But he didn’t love you. If he did, he would’ve left you alone, gone home, and jerked off.

 

But instead, he made you do it.

 

Uncle Charlie. He was the coolest Weasley ever – all ginger spitfire and dragon-taming badassery wrapped up gorgeously in a sleek, leather package. He was your favorite uncle, and of course, you were his favorite nephew – not many good ones to choose from really. You worshiped that man the way the Wizarding world worshiped dad, because, fuck saving humanity, Uncle Charlie could make a Norwegian Ridgeback purr like a kitten.

 

At the time, you had two heroes: Teddy Lupin and Charlie Weasley. Charlie seemed like an untouchable god to you, whereas Teddy was a tangible sort of hero. You could reasonably strive to be like him, and he was always accessible to you. Teddy was your big brother of sorts. But then he had to go and fuck it all up by leaving you to go to Hogwarts. You were gutted when Teddy left you behind. Mum noticed you were inconsolable, because nothing gets past her (at least, until that point, nothing had gotten past her). She thought it would cheer you up if your favorite uncle visited from Romania.

 

You were six-years-old when it started. It was in the moors behind your house. You were playing hide-and-find. Uncle Charlie was thirty-eight, the eldest of your uncles, but by far the most youthful and spry, and when he found you in the hollow of an old, dead tree, he scooped you up in his arms in a way that nobody had done since you were a baby – since you were _the_ baby, before your bothersome siblings came along. He lifted you up high and told you that you were a Hungarian Horntail.   And you laughed. You laughed freely and openly and innocently in a way you’d never laugh again.

 

He told you that you were special. He told you that you were more brilliant than Albus, and prettier than Lily. He told you that he loved you the most. He told you he’d take you to Romania some day and teach you how to wrangle dragons. He told you to call him Charlie, not Uncle Charlie, because you were closer than that – you were friends. You felt entitled to his special attention and his special friendship because you knew you were better than all of your snot-nosed cousins and siblings. So when Charlie raised you up to his level, you were over-the-moon.

 

And then he told you to keep it a secret, because special friends always have their secrets. And special friends touch each other in special ways. He called you his special boy. And that was your undoing. Because mum used to call you her special boy before Albus came into the picture.

 

You were Charlie’s special boy for years. Even though the voices in your head and the chills that scraped up and down your spine were a very strong indication that the things Charlie did were wrong, you couldn’t stop it. How could you, really? Even the times that you swallowed the fear of losing Charlie to tell him that you didn’t like his special brand of touching, Charlie told you that you _needed_ it. All boys had to endure it to become powerful men. He told you some day you’d be the most powerful man in the world, and long before that, you would learn how to enjoy the special touch.

 

Charlie broke you down until you were a handful of shattered pieces. And he was right. You _were_ stronger for it. You were strong enough to stand up to him one day and tell him _no_. He never got angry with you. That was not Charlie’s way. He was calm and soothing and gentle on the surface – but on the inside, he was full of fire just like his dragons. And the day you told him _no_ was the day you felt his fire inside you. You had thought you couldn’t be broken down any further, but Charlie had succeeded in rendering you to ash with his fire.

 

“I’ll tell mum. I’ll tell dad,” you said as you wept, because _this_ you knew by instinct was utterly wrong, and you knew that Charlie would burn you again and again until you were microscopic molecules. It needed to stop.

 

For the first time, you saw disappointment in Charlie’s fiery blue eyes. “I thought you were special,” he said.

 

“I _am_ special,” you insisted.

 

He looked just about fed up. “You’re really not. You’re just another boy,” he said, quietly disgusted, “You don’t love me anymore.”

 

You pleaded with him because you knew that he’d leave you otherwise. “I _do_ love you, Charlie! But the way you love me… it _hurts_.”

 

Charlie wouldn’t look you in the eyes anymore – you had fallen that far from grace and it stung as if he’d slapped you. “If you can’t be a good and special boy anymore, then fine. Your choice. But I’m not your Charlie anymore, got it? I’m your _Uncle_ Charlie, just like I am to your sister and brother and cousins.”

 

You cried so hard. You didn’t think he could hurt you this thoroughly, just gutted from the inside out.

 

Before he left you in the grass beneath a shady willow tree, he said, “Don’t tell your mum and dad. You know they’ll never understand people like us.” He’d said it many times before. But this time, he added, “If you tell them, it’ll hurt them. You know how your mum gets. How your dad gets. You don’t want to do that to them. You don’t want to be the reason they hurt themselves.”

 

Yes, your parents had secrets too. You’d seen dad come home after being away for days on another Auror mission, weary right down to his soul. You’d seen him lock himself in his study and come out even more battered than the way he’d gone in, with the faint blur of magic vaguely hiding the red tracks of self-hatred running up and down his arms. You’d seen mum cuddling a bottle of firewhiskey on nights when dad didn’t come home and you knew she’d reign down with fire and brimstone on you and your siblings when she was in that state of drunken misery.

 

No, you couldn’t do that to them. You couldn’t destroy them. And so you never told them anything.

 

 

Next Christmas, you saw Uncle Charlie disappearing into the moors behind your house, carrying your cousin Hugo on his shoulders.


	3. Why Potters Don't Go Camping

There is a reason why Potters don’t go camping. It’s not that it isn’t their thing. It’s just that… bad things happen when Potters go camping.

 

Exhibit A: 1997. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley go on a wee camping trip. They’re three teenagers out in the woods with no adult supervision and a lot of sexual tension. I know, it sounds rather sweet right there. But there’s more. While on this trip, they go looking for pieces of Voldemort’s soul, and in the process, nearly starve to death and very nearly die in several other ways. Needless to say, Harry, Hermione, and Ron are scarred for life and are put off camping for quite a while.

 

Exhibit B: 2013. Some crackpot therapist convinces middle-aged Harry Potter, Hermione Weasley and Ron Weasley to take their families camping in the same cursed woods in order to work through their deeply suppressed unresolved emotional issues. Sounds like the premise of a really bad romantic comedy or a horror movie? It should. Because it was. The latter. Muggles called it The Blair Witch Project. We call it James Sirius Potter and the Rubbish Camping Trip. Or, Why Potters Don’t Go Camping.

 

 

Jamie was nine. He was doing quite brilliantly, considering he was being forced to spend a week in a tent with his gross brother, his boring sister, and his dull as balls parents. The fact that Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron were there with their infernal ginger spawn did not provide any sort of consolation, nor any entertainment of value beyond poking Hugo incessantly with a spiky twig until he cried (actually, that was pretty amusing).

 

It was around day three of mind-numbing boredom that Jamie wandered off into the woods alone in search of adventure, because why the fuck not? Wolves and monsters and cursed ground be damned! Jamie was going to see some action on this trip even if he had to lure out the predators with his own body as juicy bait.

 

But Jamie, dear sweet and naïve Jamie, did not count on there being predators of the human kind in the woods that day. They were not the opportunistic sort of predators. No, not those types – you know the sort – the ones that build houses out of candy in hopes that delectable little children wander by and end up on the hot side of the oven door.

 

Nope. These predators were the calculating ones. The sort that plan for years. The sort that hunt in packs. The sort that stalk their prey from afar and just watch, waiting for the right time to strike.

 

You see, Harry Potter, being the bloke who killed the leader of the Death Eater gang, and the head Honcho of the Aurors, made himself a lot of enemies. Everyone that had ever tried to assassinate the Chosen One met a very unfortunate end. So the baddies went at him from a different angle. They hit him in his weakest spot. His family jewels.

 

No, they didn’t kick Harry Potter in the nuts. That’d be a low blow. They stole the most precious and sparkly jewel of the entire Potter family.

 

Jamie hadn’t heard them coming. They used magic to silence their approach. When they were close enough for Jamie to sense their presence in the quiet void of the forest, it was too late. Their hands were everywhere. More hands than Jamie could count. Hands over his mouth. Hands over his eyes. Hands shackling his arms and legs. Hands whisking him away to another campsite nearby, hidden behind charms and wards.

 

They spoke in whispers, but never to him directly, because everyone knows that spooky whispers are way more intimidating than barking predictable threats like _I’m gonna cut off each of your fingers one by one and owl them to your parents_ (which is a bad idea, by the way, since owls are, you know, carnivores, and human fingers are a tasty snack that wouldn’t reach their intended recipient).

 

They kept Jamie blindfolded so that he wouldn’t have to look at their, no doubt, ugly faces. Evil wizards are always ugly with no hair or bad hair – case-in-point, Baldy Voldy. Jamie’s captors kept him bound and silent with their magic so that Jamie couldn’t use his wit and his charm and his grace to elegantly slither his way out of the situation.

 

Jamie was frightened in the kidnappers lair, of course, but not too scared. He was a strong lad with a mind of steel, and nothing would break him down. Uncle Charlie had already done a thorough job of that, so by the time the kidnappers had gotten a hold of Jamie, there was nothing left to break. 100 points to Gryffindor team Seeker, Charlie Weasley. Zero points to the evil wizards. James Sirius Potter wins!

 

~//~

 

Except you didn’t win, James.

 

You lost one of your most valuable assets. You lost your mind.

 

The kidnappers kept you in the dark behind a blindfold for so long that you lost your sense of time. You didn’t know how many days you’d been in captivity. You didn’t know whether it was night or day at any given time. They fed you at odd intervals, so you couldn’t decipher the hours even by that.

 

They didn’t talk to you. They whispered to each other in your presence. You heard male voices. Female voices. None of them familiar. And even when it seemed like nobody was there, you continued to hear their voices playing with your heart and your mind, making you anxious and giving you hope and crushing it soon after.

 

_They’re looking for him. Dozens of Aurors. Civilian search parties. The whole of goddamn wizarding England is combing the woods for the Potter brat._

 

Of course they were looking for you. You were the first-born golden child of The Chosen One. Dad would overturn the whole fucking country to find you.

 

_They’re smart. They know our location is hidden behind impenetrable layers of secrecy. So they’ve stopped looking. They’re trying to flush us out. But we can wait. We can wait for weeks. Days. Fuck it, we can wait years and let the Potter brat shrivel into nothing before we give him up._

You feared _that_ the most – being left behind. When you heard their footsteps begin to grow more distant, you screamed, even though the spells kept your voice from reaching anyone’s ears. _Don’t leave me here alone!_ But they left you alone. You don’t know how long they would go away for – minutes, hours, a whole day. You couldn’t tell. When you were alone with your own thoughts in the darkness, it was the ultimate torture. You were consumed by fear and doubt.

 

And that’s when you started to listen to the voices in your head. Because there was no other sound to be heard except the constant buzz and hum of your own anxiety and fear. _Would they let you die here? Would dad stop looking? Would mum replace you with Albus? Would they let your little shit brother have your room? Would they give your broom to Lily? Would they forget you ever existed?_

And then the kidnappers stepped up their game, likely to get the Ministry to take their demands seriously. They wanted the release of five convicted Death Eaters from Azkaban. You thought that being left alone was torture. Sweetheart, you had no fucking idea.

 

The first time they removed the spells that rendered you mute and blind, it was so that they could make you scream and cry for the camera. The tent was lit by dim oil lamps, but it might as well have been lit by a hundred blazing suns when you opened your eyes. You couldn’t see much beyond the glare of too much light too soon. There were human shapes in dark cloaks and masks.

 

And there were hands. Too many hands again. Ripping your urine-soaked clothes from your body. Touching you in ways that Charlie touched you, only devoid of his love and his gentleness. They cackled maniacally as they humiliated you.

 

_Look at how pathetic he is. He’s so scrawny and small. What a useless little bitch. He can’t possibly be the son of the man who defeated The Dark Lord._

They took moving pictures as they mocked and goaded your father, using you as an effigy to desecrate.

 

_Look at us fucking your precious boy. You can’t do anything about it. We’re taking turns putting our cocks down his lovely throat while you sit at home, you ineffectual wanker. Look at your beautiful son, Potter. Watch us making a mess of his pretty face with our spunk. This is what we will do every single fucking day you choose to ignore us. For every day that the five Death Eaters spend in Azkban, we will send you another video. Each one will get worse for your son – better for us – especially me and my mate here – we’ve never done double penetration before, and it’d be fun to try it with your brat._

You blacked out after they made that first video. You suffocated under the intense horror of it all, under the heaviness of bodies forcing you into ugly shapes, choking on their evil, gagging on their cruelty.

 

You never thought you could be broken more than the way Charlie had broken you.

 

His bad touch was bloody romantic compared to this.

 

From then on, you welcomed the dark solitude – the unknown hours of nothingness, alone with your shame and your misery. When they came back to feed you, you had an all-out fit. You struggled like a demon against the magic that bound you. You wailed like a banshee, though nobody could hear you. You were so frantic and terrified of what they would do to you that one of them smacked you hard across the face to get you to stop.

 

But you didn’t stop. You were a wild little thing, fighting for his life. So they hit you again. And again. Until the pain in your bones was the only thing that made you stop.

 

_He’s a good boy now. He’s learning._

The next time they came, you didn’t move. You found a place deep inside your own mind and you hid there. In the secret garden inside your mind, you played exploding snap with Teddy and ate too many chocolate frogs and laughed at his stupid jokes. While you were inside your secret garden, you were nearly catatonic on the outside. You cried silent tears and flinched as they filmed another video. Because the first one apparently wasn’t enough. The ministry released one insignificant Death Eater – the youngest of the five with the least amount of influence. But the kidnappers didn’t really give two shits about Death Eaters rotting in prison. They wanted to break Harry Potter. They wanted to break him by breaking you.

 

And as the cameras rolled, you faintly heard them speaking through the fog of your mind.

 

_He’s so good. So GOOD._

After the second video went out, dad found you. Of course, he did. He’s Harry Fucking Potter, after all.

 

When your blindfold was lifted and you saw dad’s face, he looked absolutely destroyed. He was not even a fraction of the Savior of the Wizarding World. You felt so guilty and ashamed. You remembered Uncle Charlie telling you that you didn’t want to be the reason why your parents hurt themselves. You wanted to collapse in his arms and cry, but you didn’t. You sucked it up because dad was already in tears. You smiled brightly as if the past two months in the woods never happened.

 

And you said, “Hey dad, I think maybe we shouldn’t go camping anymore.”

 

He just had to laugh. Through his shuddering tears he chuckled and he held you close to his chest. “No camping anymore. I promise you that, Jamie.”

 

~//~

 

Jamie had an extended spa vacation after his stint in the woods, with his own private room at St. Mungo’s Hospital, where he was cleaned to a gleaming shine and pampered in every way. He got the best food delivered by Gran herself (because hospital food is slop and mum can’t cook for shit), the best healers to patch him up, the best therapists to fix his pretty head. Friends and family sent mountains of plush bears and more sweets than was probably wise, and owls bearing letters of encouragement.

_You’re an extraordinary boy and you will get through this._

_Stay strong. Know that you are loved._

_Get well soon. We miss you._

Of course, he was extraordinary and strong and loved and missed. Of course he bloody was.

 

Of course, he’d get well soon.

 

Of course he would.

 

Of course he would.

 

Of course he…

 

Of course.

 

~//~

 

That last sort of letter was always amusing to you. _Get well soon_. As if you had a mild case of dragon pox.

 

But James Sirius Potter would _not_ get well soon.

 

Every time you sat down, every time you used the loo, every time you walked, every time you bent over, sharp pain would shoot through you as a reminder of your torture. Pain triggered horrifying memories that you tried so hard to suppress. You would never recover and you would never get well as long as you felt pain.

 

And so the healers pumped you full of pain killing potions. And the psychologists plied you with all manner of poultices and draughts to calm your anxiety, to ease the trauma, to quiet the voices. You spent weeks in a drugged-up daze, swimming in waves of blissful opiate highs and resting in soft, sleepy opiate lulls.

 

Mum would visit you every day. She’d hold you close and breathe in the familiar little boy scent of your hair and say, “Oh, my sweet boy. You’re so strong.”   She couldn’t understand how you could do this – how you could have spent so much time in Hell and come out smiling prettily.

 

You never frowned or cried or showed any weakness when anyone was around, especially mum and dad. You smiled through everything. And everyone praised you for your perseverance and strength. You were every bit the Hero that dad was, and then some.

 

At least, that’s what you wanted everyone to believe.

 

You’d been in hospital for two weeks before they allowed you visitors outside your immediate family. As to be expected, Teddy was the first one to come bounding across the room to pounce on you and hug you like you’ve never been hugged before. Teddy’s arms felt like the home you hadn’t remembered that you’d missed. The brightness of his lavender eyes reminded you that there was still Good in the world.

 

“I was so scared, Jamie,” Teddy said as he grasped your hand and wiped an errant tear on his sleeve, “I can’t even imagine how you felt.”

 

All you could do was shrug your shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s… whatever. No worries, yeah?” And you smiled like you had been smiling all along.

 

But he saw through you. He rested his forehead on yours and held your face in his hands as he cried enough for you both. Because he knew you better than anyone else. He took a shuddering breath as he whispered, “It’s okay to feel things, Jamie. You’re allowed to cry. I’m not gonna judge you for it.”

 

You bit your lip so hard that you could taste the metallic tang of blood on your tongue. But it was no use trying to hold in your tears. You crumbled in Teddy’s arms and you let it all out.

 

“You were there with me the whole time, Teddy,” you said weakly as you cried. “It’s how I survived.”

 

He hugged you tightly and said, “Always, Jamie. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

 

 

But that would prove to be a lie, wouldn’t it, James?

 

 


	4. Pretty Little Pills

When Jamie left the med-spa at St. Mungo’s, he was transferred to a retreat resort called The Janus Thickey Ward for Permanent Spell Damage. Because after all of Jamie’s ouchies were healed, the ouchies in his head could not be kissed and made better. Jamie was at the retreat for a long time.

 

While he was there, psychologists were extremely fascinated with this charming boy and were enthusiastic to study him, as evident by all the questions they asked him on a daily basis. At one point, Jamie thought of hiring a publicist to field all of their numerous questions because he would much rather play wizard chess than give his opinions about ugly Rorschach art – it all looked the same to him - like a bird ate a shit ton of blackberries and vomited them back up on the paper… and then flew into the sickening blackness of its own vomitus and found its way to Hell, where demons ate its little bird eyes like berries and then vomited them back out onto the paper.

 

Medi-wizards gave Jamie lots of pretty colored pills every day. They were candy flavored, with an aftertaste of pestilence. When he took his pretty little pills, he felt numb and empty and boring. The voices in his head were deathly silent. There was nobody to keep him company in the quiet solitude of his desolate mind. And it was lonely. So Jamie would hide the pills under his tongue instead of swallowing them and then would later plant them like seeds in the potted Gerber daisies beside his bed. They made the daisies dance. And in the absence of medication, the voices in Jamie’s head grew loud.

 

_Don’t tell anybody. It’s our secret. Nobody will ever understand people like us. If you tell them the things we say, we will all be trapped here at this loony bin forever. If you tell them the things we do, it will destroy mum and dad. And you don’t want to be the reason mum and dad hurt themselves. You’re so good. So GOOD. Look at how good Jamie is? Let’s show daddy how good he can be. Look at your boy, daddy – look at how pretty his face is when we fill it with our love, all the way down his pretty throat. Take it, take it, TAKE it, TAKE IT, TAKE IT YOU LITTLE CUNT._

 

Oh dear… Jamie and his voices took it too far sometimes, and that’s when the medi-wizards stuck him with needles and gave him the sleepy juice. Jamie didn’t much like the sleepy juice. It wasn’t the same fuzzy opiate lull that he felt in the hospital. It was incapacitating. It was less sleep and more coma. And when he was under, he was down deep, trapped in Hell with demons that ate the eyes of glutinous birds, unable to escape, unable to scream for help. Like the rubbish camping trip on an endless loop.

 

So Jamie had to be careful.   Oh so careful not to let the voices get out of hand. A little pink pill here, a little blue one there – just enough to take the edge off – just enough to keep the voices soft.

 

The retreat grew miserably boring. But Jamie was a clever one. He quickly learned that if he told the psychologists what they wanted to hear, instead of the answers that he heard in his head, he would go home. So as the doctors studied him, he studied them – their mannerisms, their body language, their facial expressions. He knew what pleased them and what vexed them. He tended to be the vexing sort, but he learned to concoct his answers carefully.

 

_What do you see in this picture, Jamie?_

_I see a butterfly, flying home to his mum._

 

When Jamie was finally released, he was ten years old. Nearly eleven. If he were good, perhaps he would be allowed to attend Hogwarts. So Jamie was ever so careful at home. A little pink pill here, a little blue pill there, just enough so that not all of his Crazy was showing at once. Because, despite all of his treatment and therapy and meds, Jamie was still a mental case. A highly functioning mental case, but still a mental case. And the pills only made him boring. And Jamie didn’t like to be boring.

 

 

You know what’s great about being crazy? You get a free ticket to ride. Jamie got away with a lot of shit because nobody would punish the poor boy that got kidnapped and was suffering from some hardcore post-traumatic-stress disorder.

 

_What? Jamie beat up his shit brother again? Awh, poor lad is having PTS-induced anger issues. What? Jamie is starting Hogwarts? Put him in whatever house he wants. Gryffindor? Okay, sure. Doesn’t matter that the Hat says he belongs in Slytherin, hasn’t the child suffered enough? Better yet, put his little brother in Slytherin when he gets here just so Jamie doesn’t have to deal with him. What? Jamie is out of the dorms after curfew gallivanting across the grounds with Teddy Lupin? Don’t bother giving him detention. Better still, make him a Prefect in a couple years. Make him captain of the quidditch team. Make him Head Boy. Don’t you know what the kid has been through?_


	5. Love is a Hateful Endeavor

James had quite a brilliant first year at Hogwarts. He was always in tow with Teddy. They were unstoppable. Infallible. The Poor Abused Potter Boy and the Orphan Head Boy made quite a dynamic duo. Nobody could tell them _no_ without looking like insensitive arseholes. And so Jamie and Teddy ran wild like the entitled princes that they were, because they fucking deserved to have a good time for once in their sad, victimized lives.

 

It was during a midnight dip in the black lake on a prematurely warm May evening when things began to click into place for James. Under the full moon, Teddy’s hair glowed an other-worldly shade of blue and his smile lit up the black water bellow. And Jamie knew, right then and there, that he and Teddy belonged together.

 

Teddy splashed Jamie in the face with water and Jamie retaliated by playfully trying to pull him under the lake. They giggled and wrestled with wet, goose-flesh skin, slipping madly in each other’s gangly limbs. Jamie stopped dead, causing Teddy to give a startled pause.

 

“What? What is it, Jamie? Did I do something wrong?” Teddy asked, quickly pulling away, likely wondering if their slippery wrestling match triggered some horrible memory in Jamie’s mind.

 

But it hadn’t. Jamie smiled his crooked Cheshire Cat smirk and said, “Nothing’s wrong, Teddy. I love you, that’s all.” He shrugged his shoulders because Jamie always played it cool, even when he was being a sentimental dork.

 

Teddy furrowed his brow. “You _what_?” He couldn’t hear Jamie, or maybe he couldn’t _believe_ what he was hearing. Because it was exactly what Teddy was feeling. Of course Teddy loved Jamie. Of course he did. Of course he…

 

Jamie reached out and pulled Teddy close, because Jamie was big for his age and could reasonably manhandle a seventeen-year-old. And he kissed him. Teddy was so shocked because he never believed that his love for Jamie would be returned. It was all so startling that Teddy was rendered motionless and silent. He didn’t kiss Jamie back because he was stunned. Like, _wow, oh my gods, this amazing beautiful boy loves me, oh gosh, what do I do now, I can’t even, …WOW._

 

 

~//~

 

You don’t honestly believe that’s how things went down, do you, James? Fuck. You’re crazier than we thought.

 

No, sweetheart, Teddy wasn’t blissfully stunned. He was horrified. You were his wee sidekick. His little brother from another mother. You were family enough for it to be a deterrent (starkly different from Charlie). Oh, and you were a boy. Teddy wasn’t into that. Well, maybe he was bi-curious at best, but you were the last boy he wanted kissing him.

 

But he knew that he couldn’t say no to you. Not without destroying you. And he let you down easy because he loved you like a brother – not because he was grappling with an age difference or anything. He wasn’t attracted to you because, well, he was a normal, sane adolescent who did not find twelve-year-olds attractive.

 

You thought that you just needed to wheedle down his inhibitions and his hang-ups about age. You kept flirting with him and charming him and doting on him. And he let you because he was afraid of rejecting you outright. You were so blinded by delusion that you honestly could not see that your love was completely one-sided.

 

When he finished Hogwarts, Teddy was relieved to get some distance between you. And you, you were gutted all over again, just like when he started school and left you behind at home. There was an emptiness inside you that nobody else but Teddy could fill.

 

You had to fill the void somehow, lest you spiral out of control and lose yourself in despair. There was no shortage of pretty things to distract you. You may have been a bit off in the head, but that head on your shoulders was a gorgeous one and there were lots of girls who would have enthusiastically taken Teddy’s place in your heart. But they were too easy.

 

You didn’t want what you could readily have. You’d become this person that needed your love to hurt – that needed love to be misshapen and ill-fitting. It wasn’t good unless a square peg was being forced into a round hole.

 

And Louis Weasley just happened to be the perfect round hole for your square peg.

 

Although, you didn’t love him. He was lonely, and he was malleable, and he was a closeted homosexual with all sorts of Weasley shame issues stemming from his disapproving arsehole father who was likely a closet case himself. You’d grown up together, so you knew each other quite well – not the same way you and Teddy were acquainted, but still well enough to know some of Louis’ secrets.

 

You found him walking alone in the school corridors one evening, squeezed his arm like you meant business, and whispered into his ear, “If you don’t come with me, I’m going to tell the whole school that you just snogged Matthias Grubber in a washroom stall.”

 

Louis gasped, horrified, and asked, stunned, “How did you…?”

 

“Because I followed you, dolt.” You said it like it was obvious, as you flicked his thick skull with your fingers. “Pro-tip: if you don’t want to be found snogging a boy on school property, go someplace dark and spooky where nobody will follow you.”

 

“Erm… like…?”

 

Gods, Louis was so clueless for a Ravenclaw.

 

“I’ll show you,” you said with a smirk.

 

Along the way, you made up some horrible things about Matthias Grubber, and Louis believed you because he was naïve enough to put a lot of faith in your family bond. “He doesn’t really fancy you. He was just experimenting. He doesn’t like boys the way you and I like boys.”

 

“Are you serious?” He was scandalized by all of it, especially your low key coming out. Because the gaydar signal you gave off was extremely low and Louis had not suspected you were keen on boys, not with the way you flirted so brazenly with girls.

 

“Is my middle name not Sirius?” That never got old. “Of course, I’m serious. Don’t waste your breath on Matthias. He’s a dick anyway. You can do so much better.”

 

You took Louis under the crumbling bleachers of the old quidditch stands that stood beyond the new quidditch stadium. It was dark and spooky and desolate, exactly as promised.

 

“Okay, so what are we doing here?” Louis asked, glancing around warily, flinching away from the cobwebs dangling nearby, “This place is right spooky and I’m pretty sure curfew is in a few minutes.”

 

Gods, almost too easy.

 

You pushed his back into the rotting wood of a rickety pillar. You curled your fists into the front of his robes, and you drawled slow and low and deep. “Tell anybody about what I’m about to do to you, and I’ll tell your dad that you let Matthias fuck you in the boys’ bathroom like a two-knut whore.”

 

“What?!” Louis huffed, scandalized by the vulgarity of your fabricated accusation. “What are you talking about, Jamie? You’re bloody…” And then he stopped himself from finishing his sentence, realizing it was unwise.

 

But you finished it for him anyway. “I’m what? Bloody crazy? You bet your sweet, cock-loving arse I’m crazy.”

 

And then actually giggled. Because nobody ever believed that you were as insane as you were reported to be. And Louis especially believed that a lot of it was an act – a means to get away with everything and gain sympathy points. He underestimated you. He thought you were being dramatic for attention and pulling a prank.

 

He laughed and said, “You really had me there for a minute.”

 

You pushed him harder against the stands and drawled menacingly. “Oh, you think I’m joking, do you?”

 

“Jamie, did you forget to take your meds?” he asked, tensing once again in your grasp.

 

And that is when you struck. You pressed your palm against his throat and forced your lips upon his. He was the same age as you, but you were bigger and stronger, and you easily kept him subdued with the threat of strangulation. You pried his lips open with your tongue and you made him whimper in horror and you tasted his acrid fear in your mouth. And it was fucking delicious.

 

You felt his jugular vein flutter in your grasp like the delicate wings of a little bird.   You felt his body quivering with fright as you pressed yours upon it. You felt your cock begin to rouse as he struggled against you. You were not at all surprised that the thrill of violence and the rush of power gave you your first formidable erection at the age of twelve. Somehow you always knew that being the aggressor instead of the victim would make you hard in your pants.

 

You rut against him as you kissed him hard - All teeth and tongue and rough inexpert lips. Louis squirmed away from you, but every time he tried to turn his head, you squeezed his neck more firmly, until he was forced to just take it. He was a sniveling, whimpering, mess of briny tears and bitter spit to lap up and savor like the most wretched cocktail.

 

You came in your trousers and felt as high as you were when you were drugged up on opiate potions in the hospital. You released Louis’ neck and staggered back, drunk on your first productive orgasm, still giddy from the head rush that power had given you. You smirked lazily, smugly, as Louis stood there, shivering and in shock.

 

“Meet me here tomorrow night. Same time,” you said smoothly, as if setting up a rendezvous with a secret boyfriend.

 

Louis whined, quietly defiant. “I won’t bloody let you do that to me again.”

 

“Oh no?” You quirked a challenging eyebrow at him. “If you don’t meet me here tomorrow night, I’m going to do this to your sister.”

 

“Victoire?” he scoffed through his tears. “Whatever. Go ahead and try.”

 

She was a formidable witch and you could probably take her on, but perhaps Louis didn’t seem to think so.

 

“No, not Vic.” You leaned in close and whispered sinisterly against his cheek before giving it a tender kiss.   “Sweet little baby girl firstie, Dominique.”

 

He flinched. Louis was always very protective of his little sister. You couldn’t understand why. Little sisters were only marginally less of a nuisance than little brothers. But your own disregard for your siblings aside, you knew that Louis would do anything for Dom, but Vic, not so much. You and Vic shared a distaste for little brothers and little sisters. So it was Louis, and Louis alone that would keep Dom safe from your wicked mouth.

 

 

The next morning you made a show of petting Dom’s hair when you greeted her at the Gryffindor table during breakfast, making sure Louis saw you touching his precious little sister.

 

That evening, like clockwork, Louis met you under the bleachers. You started off gentle this time, seducing him like a lover, softly combing your fingers through his strawberry blond hair, holding him against a pillar with the intensity of your stare.

 

“This is wrong, Jamie,” Louis mumbled weakly, “You’re my cousin.”

 

You smirked and said, “They call them kissing cousins for a reason,” as you twirled a lock of his hair around your finger and began to close the distance between you.

 

“But we’re first cousins. We share blood.” The look in his eyes was frantic. He knew what was coming.

 

You leaned in and nipped his bottom lip gently. “Mmm, that’s so romantic,” you groaned sensually. “It must be the French part of you.”

 

“Jamie, please,” he pleaded with a pathetic whimper.

 

“ _En Français_ ,” you commanded him playfully.

 

“Come on, Jamie, I’m not gonna say it in French. Just stop this,” he whined.

 

You demanded firmly this time as your hand flew to his throat. “ _En Français_ ,”

 

He gave a pretty little gasp and a twitchy flinch and it made your pulse quicken.

 

“ _S'il vous plaît arrêter,_ Jamie,” he whispered harshly as you tightened your grasp around his neck.

 

The sound of him pleading was enough to make your cock stir. But the sound of him perfectly annunciating as if Submissive French Bitch was his mother tongue… _fuck_. It was enough to have you fully cocked inside your neatly pressed robes.

 

You didn’t release his throat. Your lips brushed against his cheek as you said, “You know, _Jamie_ looks a lot like _je t'aime_ when you write it out. For all I know, you’re saying, _please stop – I love you_.”

 

His face started to turn pink and puffy from oxygen deprivation. But you still didn’t let go.

 

You batted your eyelashes at him and spoke with feigned coyness, “If you love me, Louis, then why do you want me to stop?”

 

When you finally took your fingers off his throat, he took a desperate gasp for air. It was a blissful sound. Like the desperate, breathy sounds of fucking. And, oh, you were so keyed up to get off. You dropped to your knees and went to work on opening Louis’ trousers.

 

He blubbered and sniffled and begged you weakly, which only fueled the fire inside your rotten core. “Don’t... Please... Stop it…”

 

You responded melodically, “ _Enchanté, s'il vous plait, en Français,_ ” as you gazed up at him with wild eyes and tugged his trousers and shorts down to his thighs. You knew just a little French from spending summers with Louis’ family at their beach house.

 

“ _Arrêter…_ ,” he squeaked, screwing his eyes shut as if he could make it all stop just by not seeing it happen.

 

You instructed with the same dulcet voice, “Say it, Louis.”

 

He paused for a long time, trying to figure out what you wanted to hear, and then finally whimpered, “Please… _s'il vous plait_.”

 

You shook your head slowly as you took his flaccid dick in your hands and started to work on the sad little thing. “You need this, Louis. You _need_ this.”

 

“Why?” he cried, nearly inaudibly.

 

“Because it’ll make you stronger,” you answered as if it was entirely reasonable.

 

~//~

 

Quite frankly, Louis Weasley was a little pussy-boy. He could do with a proper hand job, even if only just to learn what it was to give a proper hand job. And Jamie, being the generous sort, also had to show him how to give a proper blowjob. Of course. Which was all a prelude to Louis’ real purpose in life – to be a pretty come receptacle for Jamie.

 

Oh, what a good receptacle Louis would become. _See, daddy? He’s learning._ Jamie taught him, with his fingers wound tightly around his strawberry blond curls, how to cover his teeth and take Jamie all the way down his throat.

 

And Jamie learned too. Jamie learned that he could train Louis so well that he wouldn’t even have to hurt Louis to make him do as he desired – the operant word being _have to_. Jamie didn’t _have to_ threaten Louis with promises of a violated little sister. Because Jamie always _wanted_ to hurt and threaten and menace and terrorize Louis.

 

It felt so fucking good to hurt Louis. That was a beautiful revelation.

 

When Jamie was digging his nails into the back of Louis’ neck, or kissing Louis sharply enough to draw blood, or giving Louis a slap across the face with his dick or the back of his hand, or dry fucking him against a pillar hard enough to make Louis bruise, Jamie felt invincible, powerful, godlike.

 

And do you want to know the craziest thing? More crazy than Jamie making his first cousin his bitch? Louis turned out to be better than Jamie could ever dream. Maybe the kid had just needed to catch up and properly go through puberty. Or perhaps Jamie’s brand of square peg love was exactly what Louis had needed all along. Because after about a year, Louis started wanting it. Craving it. Seeking Jamie out and asking for it. Face-down-arse-up begging for it. Meet-me-after-class needing it. Tell-me-you-love-me-Jamie living for it. Fuck-me-in-the-bathroom addicted to it. Louis had become a good and proper slut who could speak French fluently around a cock in his mouth.

 

But even though Louis was so good – _so GOOD_ – Jamie couldn’t love him. Because Louis wasn’t like Jamie. _Louis would never understand_ _people like us_. Not like Teddy. Teddy knew Jamie right down to his coal-black soul.

 

There was only room for two in Jamie’s wretched heart: Jamie and Teddy 4eva.

 

 

It was September 2017 when Teddy graced platform 9 ¾ for the first time since he’d finished Hogwarts.   James was so excited that Teddy had come to see him off to school for his third year. Jamie had always known Teddy would come around eventually.

 

Jamie had caught a glimpse of the back of Teddy’s turquoise head from far down the platform and started running towards him. But he stopped short when Victoire materialized into Teddy’s arms and snogged him like some sort of facial parasite. And Teddy snogged the bitch back as if he meant it. Jamie was mortified. It was more traumatizing than the time he’d gone down to the kitchen for a midnight snack and caught dad giving it to mum on the counter.

 

Jamie thought he was perhaps hallucinating on the train platform – not enough of the pretty pink pills, maybe. So he ran over to dad, who was giving stupid Albus a stupid firstie pep talk, and recounted what he had seen – all wide eyed and in disbelief. Dad shrugged it off because, yeah, apparently it was old news that Teddy and Vic had been dating for months now. No wonder Teddy had been scarce at the Potter house around the holidays.

 

Jamie’s world was crumbling upon itself, like entropy. He couldn’t breathe. He felt a manic rage episode coming on and he nearly flung his brother upon the tracks. Well, that was actually unrelated to the whole Victoire thing. But still. He was _this_ close to murdering his stupid brother out of misdirected anger because Vic, with her dark Veela magic and evil seduction, had managed to ensnare Jamie’s beloved Teddy in a trap and was planning to consume him alive with the fangs between her legs.

 

But Jamie played it cool because Jamie always played it cool when it came to Teddy. He acted unaffected and went on his merry way back to school. On the outside, he was the same charismatic Jamie that everyone adored and gave a wide berth to. But alone with his voices, alone with Louis, he was a raging demon unleashed from the underworld, hell bent on infecting everyone with his heartbreak and misery and despair.

 

Of course, Louis noticed something was upsetting Jamie. It was kind of hard not to notice, what with all the blood Jamie was drawing and wounds he was inflicting when they were vengeance-fucking. And Louis, poor little lamb, tried to be the angel that placated the demon.

 

_What’s wrong, Jamie? Laissez-moi vous aider mon amour. Let me help you, my love. You should take your meds today, baby. You need them. You need me. Let me love you. Blah. Blah. Blah le blah et blah blah blah._

Gods, Louis was getting so bloody boring.

 

There was only one thing that could soothe the demon – tame the dragon - appease the angry gods that manifested their rage inside Jamie’s head. They demanded a blood sacrifice.

 

 

Jamie had endured an entire Christmas dinner at Gran’s watching Teddy and Vic grope each other under the table. He was about ready to go off on the bitch. _Oh no you did not just touch my man_ _I will cut you!_ But he had managed to keep it cool behind his Cheshire cat smile.

 

He waited and stalked his prey like a proper predator, waiting for the right time to strike.

It was back at school after the holidays when Jamie found Vic in the corridor and confronted her the same way he had confronted her brother a year before. “We need to have a conversation, Vic,” he whispered behind her ear.

 

She smelled of French milled soap and lavender perfume. So pretty and delicate and wispy and vile.

 

She raised a challenging brow at Jamie and wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “If it’s about Louis, I know. He’s a freak. You’re both disgusting. You’re lucky I don’t tell your dad what an abomination you two are.”

Jamie giggled with amusement. Vic was so cute, fancying herself to be so fucking clever, practically asking for what was coming.

 

“Love you too, Vic.” Jamie grinned wryly. “I have some information about our dear Teddy that I think you really want to know.”

 

She tensed at the mention of Teddy. And that’s when Jamie knew he had her. He had her at Teddy... He had her at _Teddy_.

 

Like all good conversations begin, this one began under the old bleachers. It smelled of mold and rotting wood and week-old fetid semen.

 

Vic crossed her arms and rolled her eyes and tossed her hair behind her lofty shoulders and looked pretty and stupid and boring. “Well, let’s have it then. What’s this dirt you have on Ted. Is he cheating on me with some university slag? Merlin, I should’ve known. So typical. He’s just like every other boy.”

 

She really needed to stop slandering Jamie’s sweet Teddy. Because Teddy was not like every other boy. He was special. He was one-of-a-kind. He was a metamorphmagus with blue hair, for fuck’s sake, and not just another one of Vic’s disposable boyfriends.

 

Jamie thought it was in everybody’s best interest, for the sake of Humanity, to silence Vic with his hands around her throat. But Vic was not her brother. And she put up a fight, with cat-lady nails swatting and wands swishing and everything, which made things so much more fun for Jamie. Jamie, being faster and more agile and all around more brilliant, was able to disarm Vic and pin her down to the ground, with only minimal magical restraint – just seven well-placed and innovatively cast spells. Whoever had invented the jelly legs jinx probably hadn’t intended on it being used for the purpose of making said legs easy to spread.

 

Jamie lay above Vic on the ground, gazing down at the limp mass of incapacitated flesh dressed in burgundy and gold robes. As Jamie unwrapped his prize, agonizingly slow to draw out her terror, Vic growled like a fierce lioness - like a good and proper Gryffindor, and it only made Jamie want to vanquish her harder, house pride be damned. _Ten points to Gryffindor!_

 

He wanted to defeat her hard enough to make her bruise prettily. He wanted to enact vengeance hard enough to make her spit blood that matched the precise shade of French designer cosmetics smeared on her stupid mouth. He wanted to slay her utterly enough to make the angels weep in reverent awe of his bravery.

 

It felt so bloody brilliant that Jamie could have been fooled into thinking he was actually straight. But, no, Jamie only got off on the thud of Vic’s pulse under his fingertips, on the way she swore in French, on the way her tears made her mascara run down her flushed cheeks. It otherwise made his skin crawl to thrust himself into squelchy, dank, festering female flesh. _Ugh_ , girls were so fucking _gross_.

 

He would have nearly lost his erection, if it were not for Victoire’s enthusiastic encouragement.

 

_I’m your cousin, you freak! You’re a monster! You are an abomination! What you do is a sin against nature! You won’t get away with this. My father will curse your balls off when he finds out._

But Uncle Bill would never find out, would he?

 

Jamie laughed as his fingers tightened around Victoire’s elegant neck. He was light-headed and giddy as he felt Vic’s pulse become fainter with each thrust of his hips. And the more quiet she became, the more frantic and desperate and eager Jamie felt, until he reached the apex of chaos. And at this height of chaos, he felt peace.

 

He felt serene as Victoire gazed up at him with unmoving eyes, bloodshot and blue, glassy and soulless. He could hear angels singing heavenly songs in his honor. He kissed his lovely cousin’s blood-smeared lips goodbye with the tip of his cock and giggled impishly like a pleased little boy at the revolting mess he had made.

 

And for dessert, he had Louis in the broom shed. Jamie was still so high on his triumph that he even told Louis he loved him. And Louis believed him enough to cry.

 

~//~

 

Except Louis wasn’t crying because he believed you. He cried because he could tell from the emptiness in your eyes that you could never love anyone. You were lost to the emotion of human compassion, and you would never be able to give Louis what he needed. He was so miserable and delusional in love with you that he accepted fate.

 

He knew what you were. He knew you were a monster and he loved you anyway because he understood that it wasn’t your fault. And you’d fucked with his head so deeply that he believed that he got what he deserved – that he was not entitled to a normal, healthy, reciprocal, loving relationship – that he was every bit a monster as you were.

 

It wasn’t until dinner the next day that the Headmistress pulled Louis and Dominique from the great hall and gave them some bad news in her office. You didn’t see them at school for quite a while after that.

 

But you did see many Aurors and Ministry investigators. Even dad had his nose in the investigation. You weren’t even worried. You’d cleaned up your mess well. You had used a stolen wand that night with Victoire and you were careful to destroy it after you’d destroyed all evidence that you’d ever been there. That was the great thing about being a wizard – it was so easy to make messes go away.

 

 

You saw Teddy a week later at Victoire’s funeral, and when you made your move to be the perfect shoulder to cry on, he shied away.

 

“Don’t take it personally, Jamie, I just… I just don’t want anybody touching me right now, okay?” He was so gentle and kind and gracious about telling you to back the fuck up that you smiled and nodded with eyes that shone with quiet murderous rage.

 

“Yeah, sure, I get it,” you said, shrugging it off, cool as ever, even though you felt a sudden urge to take a silver-tipped quill to his pretty lavender eyes.

 

“I knew you, above all others, would understand. I mean, after what you’d been through.” He cracked a teary smile that broke your heart to coal dust. “You’re the best, Jamie.”

 

You gave him a gentle nod and walked away.

 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to collapse in your arms and cry and tell you that he needed you now more than ever. This wasn’t supposed to break Teddy, it was supposed to liberate him. You won Teddy from Victoire fair and square and you should’ve collected your prize right then and there. When you cried at the cemetery as they lowered Victoire’s rose-covered white casket into the ground, your family looked at you with pity.

 

_Poor Jamie. Of course, he’s taking this hard. It almost happened to him when he was nine… it almost happened to him. Maybe a part of Jamie knows it could’ve been him in the ground instead of Victoire._

 

But your tears were not of sorrow. Your tears were wrought in anger. They poured from your eyes like molten rage. _It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This isn’t happening the right way. It’s all wrong._

Not _everybody_ looked at you sympathy. When you saw Louis at Victoire’s funeral, he looked at you with more sadness in his eyes than was merited for losing a sister who he wasn’t even close with. And that’s because he knew. He didn’t speak to you, but Louis’ miserably blue eyes would not leave you. Maybe he wanted you to feel guilty. But James Sirius Potter is infallible. Vic got what she deserved and someday Louis was going to understand that, even if you had to make him understand it.

 

 

When Louis came back to school two weeks later, he came back to _you_ like a good boy. He crumbled in your arms and cried the way that Teddy was supposed to. _These arseholes weren’t following their scripted roles the way they were written._

 

When you laid him down in the grass by the black lake, you were gentle and you kissed him softly and let your sharp edges fall to the wayside for once. You nuzzled him sweetly and told him everything you thought he wanted to hear.

 

“I love you, baby. _Je t'aime beaucoup,_ Louis,” you told him as you placated him with loving hands and suppressed your malicious intentions. You touched him the way real lovers touched and made him feel safe. You cooed like a dove into his ear, “I’m here for you, _mon amour_. I would do anything for you.”

 

He looked at you with a slight glimmer of hope – hope he knew he was not entitled to have. “Anything?”

 

Of course, there was a catch. Louis should’ve known this. Because round-peg-in-round-hole romance is for losers.

 

“Anything, as long as you’d do the same for me,” you told him as your lips hovered over his, nearly close enough to kiss.

 

“I want to. But I don’t know if I can anymore.” And that’s when he broke down and cried. Sometimes it bored you when he cried, and other times it gave you a hard on. This time, well, maybe it gave you a semi.

 

You stroked his cheek gently and hushed him with your whispers. “Sweetheart, I know you can. You’re so good. _So GOOD._ ”

 

“Tell me how, because I can’t be good for you and still do the right thing,” he said.

 

You could tell that it was very hard for Louis to admit this to you. You could see the fear in his eyes. He knew that this could possibly set you off, and he was still too messed up by his sister’s death to take your square-peg love at that moment.

 

You thought about it for a quiet moment, during which Louis shuddered in your arms, flinching every time your body shifted above him. You didn’t hit him the way he expected you to, and you even promised him that you wouldn’t. Not tonight.

 

You gently cupped his face between your hands, gazed intently into his weepy doe eyes, and you said, “I would die for you, baby. I would _DIE_ for you.”

 

Louis was silent and looked more stunned than moved.

 

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips and whispered against his mouth, “Do you understand? _Comprenez vous_?”

 

His lips quivered as he sobbed quietly and nodded. “ _Oui._ _Comprenez vous_.”

 

 

The next day, Louis Weasley was found hanging from a window in Ravenclaw tower with cobalt blue bed sheets tied around his neck, a cobalt blue pout on his pretty, blue face, and a letter pinned to his school robes.

 

_My language beaten_

_Into one name;_

_I am in love_

_And that is my shame._

_What hurts the soul_

_My soul adores,_

_No better than a beast_

_Upon all fours._

_\- Keats_

 

 

_Je suis désolé, ma chère sœur. Je vous aimerai toujours, Victoire._

_[A/N: Translation: I am sorry, my dear sister. I will love you forever, Victoire.]_

 

 

Keats’ poetry was Louis true confession. And in his own words, he lied. He did it all for you.

 

 

When they lowered Louis casket into the ground next to his sister’s still-fresh grave, you were moved enough to cry genuine tears. And you whispered, over and over.

 

_You’re so good… you’re so good… you’re so good._


	6. Jamie Had A Little Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Deadpool inserted for lols. Don't even ask, I can't explain.

You needed to be a good boy for a while. Crazy as you may have been, even _you_ understood that. You had sacrificed Victoire and Louis to the demon-gods that lived inside your head. You’d done quite well, feeding the deities beautiful children oozing with golden Veela blood. They were satisfied for a while, which was fortunate, because the Authorities closed the case. If you’d sacrificed any more pretty babies, suspicions would fly. Incest-Murder-Suicide had been an easy package to market and you couldn’t upset the economy now that it was so stable.

 

But, _damn_ , you were good at it. And you’d never be able to get the taste of blood out of your mouth and you’d always want more.

 

Being a good boy meant taking the pink pills and the blue pills and even the white and green ones too. And it made the rest of your third year at Hogwarts, and your fourth year too, a blur of numbness and quiet. You tried normalcy on for size. You had a revolving door of arm candy girlfriends who would suck you off with your eyes closed in the pathetic absence of gay cock (pity, you’d driven the only obvious ponce worth fucking to suicide). You got really fucking brilliant at quidditch and earned your title of team captain and Chaser Extraordinaire. As a Prefect, you gave out demerits and detentions to the Slytherins like a Victorian whore giving out syphilis, thus you’d become Headmistress Mcgonagall’s pet. You put effort into all your school work and earned stellar marks in every class.

 

You were _killing it_ at this normalcy game and everybody loved you, adored you, wanted to be you, wanted to be your friend. But there was a wee problem.

 

You hated everyone. You hated yourself. You hated the fact that you’d become just like them. Ordinary and typical and common and conventional and flavorless and oh so FUCKING BORING. You were done with being a good boy. It was time for the voices to come back. Because the voices made you special. Different. Better than everyone else. The voices told you the truth and made you see Life for what it was, and taught you how to manipulate it into something worth living.

 

So you stopped taking your meds altogether. You’d been taking them so diligently for so long that it took weeks for the pacifying poison to clear your system. And one by one, your faculties returned to you.

 

You woke up one day to find that it was much more gratifying to watch your professors’ eyes widen in shock at the four-letter words you’d populated your essays with, rather than earning an E. And then you woke up another day to find that you would rather spank offending Slytherins with your own hands than slap them with detention slips. Then another day still, you woke up and realized that the girl on your dick was a parasite on your genitals, so you smacked it away and swore off pussy for good. And then you woke up one day to find that throwing quaffles through hoops was not nearly as satisfying as throwing them through faces.

 

And by the time you were fully awake, you realized that you were fucking _starving_. Being on a psychopathy-free diet for too long had whittled you down to nothing. You were _nothing._ You needed to gorge yourself and get your strength back.

 

So, naturally, you needed to hunt.

 

 

~//~

There was a boy.

 

Jamie had seen this boy before. The kid had never registered as anything but a washed out, pale blur amongst the other smudges at the periphery of Jamie’s vision. But now that Jamie was looking, hunting, searching for a morsel of something sinful and sweet, Jamie began to take notice. And _oh_ , did Jamie notice.

 

He was a sweet little succulent lamb with fleece as white as snow, conspicuous in a flock of mutton matted with their own shit. And he was beautiful. With hair, the color of post-binge-drinking urine. And eyes, the color of sweet fortunate cyanosis. And the sort of lips that begged to be kissed with a wooden plank. Jamie would tell him so someday.

 

But Jamie didn’t even know his name, because he never bothered to learn any of the names of the worthless bodies that populated the school. And, up until now, the boy hadn’t been worth a second glance, or a first one for that matter. He’d been there the whole time, flying low for three years, just under Jamie’s radar, slumming it with the gutter slags. It was not because he was nothing special. No, the kid was a gem. But he was hiding in the trash.

 

 

The first time that Jamie saw him, _really_ saw him, it was somewhere by the black lake. The boy was lounging in the grass, a lone little lamb in the green pasture, practically begging to be snatched up by a hungry wolf. He was too-long limbs and too-pale skin and too-sharp angles and too well-put-together to be entirely straight. He had a bored air about him, his mouth turned down to a petulant pout, accentuating full lips that Jamie thought would look lovely wrapped around his cock.

 

The boy was waiting for something. For someone. And he looked annoyed that this someone had not arrived. Impatience was a virtue in Jamie’s book. Jamie wanted to saunter up to the kid, straddle him at the hips, and say, _Baby, I don’t know who you are, but you’re a fucking diamond, so shine on me like a twink superstar._

But the piece of shit that was keeping the princess waiting had finally arrived.

 

It was Albus. Bloody _Albus_. Stupid little Albus, coming to meet his dumb little friend. And then Jamie realized he had been salivating over Blondie. Stupid Albus’ best mate who had been deemed a worthless waste of space by association. But the kid made Albus happy. And Albus wasn’t allowed to have something that made him happy when Jamie had nothing but heartache and murder on his hands. So Jamie was determined to take what was rightfully his. It was a pity that he couldn’t even remember the kid’s name.

 

And so he learned it. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.

 

Jamie had learned every sibilant curve of the boy’s besmirched name and let the cursed cursive of those letters burn themselves in his heart. _Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy_. The words rolled off Jamie’s tongue like a felched come shot, and tasted just as sour and briny. _Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy_.

 

The fact that this pretty little lamb voluntarily spent any amount of time with Albus was just beyond Jamie’s comprehension. And so he asked. For science. It was important.

 

“Why do you hang around Albus so much?” Jamie asked Scorpius while Albus glared his ugly, ineffectual glare, “You know my brother is the lesser Potter, yes? I could marginally understand socializing with my sister - she's very much like her eldest sibling, i.e., charismatic and effervescent. But Albus? Really?”

 

Scorpius’ reply was so flippant and sarcastic, to the point of it sounding like Jamie’s words coming out of those pouty lips. “Please explain to me why you care, or better yet, why I should care. I’m fascinated. Really.”

 

His scathing words made Jamie inwardly swoon. Gods, this boy was so much better than Jamie could have ever hoped. Because Scorpius, unlike all the gaping maws at Hogwarts, was already proving himself to be anything but boring.

 

 

And so Jamie wooed Scorpius like any insane individual. He sent him love notes at a respectable rate of one per day, because Jamie always played it cool even when he was hardcore crushing on someone like a literal school boy.

 

 

_Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,_

_My brother just wants to sleep with you, you know.... Don't do it. He will snore. He will unabashedly Dutch Oven you. He will hog the covers when it's cold. You'll catch lice from his pillow. Don't be THAT kid. Don't sleep with Albus, for the love of all that is clean and parasite-free._

_\- J_

_Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,_

_I, on the other hand, do not have lice, hum Celestina Warbeck in my sleep, will wake and bake and do shotguns under the covers for you, and I won't ever steal your bedcovers because I always bring my own for sanitary reasons._

_\- J_

 

_Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,_

_If you choked on a pumpkin pasty, the resultant colour of your face would enhance the hue of those baby blues. Are you getting hot yet?  Because, damn.  That was one for the books._

_\- J_

_Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,_

_You and I should make like a bakery and roll... Fuck it, let's do it old school and BLT on that roll. Know what I mean, mate? Hope so. Because I only vaguely know. I'm hot, by the way. Did you notice? Yeah thanks, I woke up like this._

_\- J_

There were many more letters, but all of them went unanswered, until this one:

 

 

_Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,_

_I wanna douse you in green paint and spank you like the disobedient avocado that you are._

_\- J_

This was Scorpius’ response:

 

_J,_

_Damn, you are UGLY. You look like an avocado had sex with an older, more disgusting avocado... and not gently. Like it was hate-fucking. There was something wrong with the relationship and that was the only catharsis that they could find without violence._

_\- S_

Ooh! The bitch was sassy. And Jamie liked it. A lot. Not because he really liked Scorpius’ cheek – no, his missive made Jamie want to smack him back-handed across the face. Jamie liked it because it meant Scorpius was very much like him – a square peg – a square peg that needed to be taught how to be a round hole.

 

Jamie was going to have a lot of fun scraping and carving and slicing and whittling Scorpius down to a perfectly sculpted round hole into which he could force his square peg.


End file.
